


popularity contest

by youcouldmakealife



Series: between the teeth [53]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 14:58:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8165962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: man im like stupid excited for this, Jake says, and it’s a trumped up marketing ploy, a spectacle that lacks anything concrete at the end. It’s everything he hates being required to do just to play the sport he loves.Me too., David replies, then feels embarrassed about his honesty.





	

It’s a day before David learns what ‘talk to you later’ meant to Jake. It meant, well. A day.

It isn’t like — it’s just a professional text, really, despite the text speak. _neone u think shd b on team hearst?_ Jake texts. _said id send him my list tday_. It isn’t like David’s one of Hearst’s As, nor is it likely that Jake can’t figure out a shortlist himself: he seems to know half the league _personally_ , not just how they play.

Still, a second opinion is probably helpful, and David does think Hearst needs to snatch up at least a few defencemen before the other team thinks to do so themselves, because in a high offence game like that, they’re the only barrier to the goaltender getting shelled, and most of the defencemen tapped are good offensively as well.

He narrows it down to three, sends them Jake’s way. 

_jordy’s also a so we alredy got him! :)_ Jake sends back, which means Hearst is picking strategically, if perhaps nationalistically.

 _Good_ , David texts back.

 _man im like stupid excited for this_ , Jake says, and it’s a trumped up marketing ploy, a spectacle that lacks anything concrete at the end. It’s everything he hates being required to do just to play the sport he loves.

 _Me too._ , David replies, then feels embarrassed about his honesty.

*

The last time David went to the All-Star Game, he remembers animosity in the room whenever it was mentioned in the the preceding weeks. Never from Oleg, who would actually have an excuse, but from players who wouldn’t have gone even if David hadn’t been tapped. David learned quickly that he shouldn’t mention it, and that if someone did, he should disengage from the conversation if possible. 

He does the same with the Caps at first, but between Crane brainstorming with half the roster what he should pull during the shootouts, and subsequently trying to figure out how to get a rearview mirror on his mask, Quincy congratulating him and Crane in front of the team after the announcement, which got a round of applause and shrill whistling from Whelan, and everyone talking about what they’re going to do during the stretch of time off, David starts to think it isn’t a topic he needs to avoid. 

“Matty’s taking me to the Bahamas,” Robbie says when it comes up again after a game, “So you enjoy fucking _Cleveland_ and your time as a Chapsicle.”

“God help me, what did I agree to,” Matthews says.

“Don’t front, you are _up_ for our romantic getaway,” Robbie says, getting on his toes to smack a kiss to Matthews’ cheek then wandering across the room to hang off Whelan’s shoulders. Georgie, sitting in the stall beside the one Robbie just vacated, has paused with a white-knuckled grip on his elbow pad. He catches David watching him, and shoots him a tight smile before getting back to undressing. David looks away.

“I need a girlfriend,” Matthews says sadly.

“Robbie not pretty enough for you?” Quincy says. “Answer for you is dim lighting, my friend.”

“I’m telling your wife you said that,” Crane says. 

“ _She_ flourishes in fluorescent,” Quincy says.

“Lame,” Crane says, throwing his blocker at him, which Quincy catches and tosses back. 

Matthews heads for the showers, and David should follow, but first he walks over to Robbie’s stall, stands beside Georgie. 

“Are you okay?” David asks. 

Georgie looks up. “Fine, why?” he asks, and the grin on his face is so easy you’d think nothing bad has ever happened to him in his life. 

“Just checking,” David says. 

“Oh, hey, you want me to text you a list of good places?” Georgie asks.

David frowns at him.

“In Cleveland,” Georgie says. 

“That’s fine,” David says.

Georgie looks the most uncomfortable David’s ever seen him without Robbie around. “I don’t want—” he starts, low enough David has to lean in to hear him, which is good, because he follows up with, “About that night — if you want it forgotten, it’s forgotten, I don’t want this to make things awkward, or like, make you think you need to avoid me or something.”

“It’s not about that,” David says, though the fact he’s gone red probably betrays him, and he hasn’t — he hasn’t avoided Georgie, exactly, he just…has made a point to not necessarily be around him. Which is probably the definition of avoidance. “I’m just going to go where everyone goes.”

“Well,” Georgie says. “Casey knows what’s good. Listen to him over some rando who plays there once a year and thinks House of Blues is where it’s at.”

“Okay,” David says. “I will.”

“Jake knows the drill too,” Georgie says, and doesn’t comment when David goes redder.

“Um,” David says.

“You know I’m not going to tell anyone, right?” Georgie asks. “Like, you trust that?”

“Yeah,” David says.

“Okay,” Georgie says. “Just wanted to make sure.”

“I’m just,” David says, hesitates. “Embarrassed,” he says finally, which is embarrassing just to _say_ , but it’s not like it’s Georgie’s fault David did something embarrassing. 

“Don’t be,” Georgie says, and then, “I know that’s like, an incredibly facile and obvious thing to say and you have no control over it, but like. Don’t be.”

“Okay,” David says.

“Hey, out of my way, Chaps,” Robbie says, hip-checking David out of where he’s standing in front of Robbie’s stall. “And take a shower already, you stink.”

“Thanks, Robbie,” David says, but takes the cue and goes.

*

The last game before the All-Star Break is a loss in Dallas. Less than half the team’s going back on the charter. Most of the guys going somewhere warm flying out of DFW to save time, and David and Crane are on the same flight up to Cleveland. It’s an extra night in Dallas, but David would rather do that than fly home tonight just to tack on another four hour flight tomorrow, and Crane seems to feel the same way. 

“Can’t believe I’m stuck in fucking two degree weather all weekend,” Crane says, as they wait for their flight out the next morning. “Robbie’s going to be tan and intolerable when we get back.”

“Aren’t you from Saskatchewan?” David asks.

“Yeah,” Crane says.

“Where?” David asks. “Saskatoon, right?”

“That the only place in Saskatchewan you’ve heard of?” Crane asks, and when David starts to stutter out other places. “But yeah, actually.”

“What’s the weather in Saskatoon?” David asks.

“Minus thirteen,” Crane says after checking his phone. “Hey, it’s nice out for once.”

“But you’re complaining about two?” David asks.

Crane points at him. “Point,” he says. “You got your priorities straight.”

“Also you’re an All-Star,” David says.

“Yeah, but,” Crane says. “Obviously.”

That would seem cockier if he wasn’t holding onto the league lead in goals against and wins. It still is a little cocky, but it isn’t like he’s wrong. 

“You’ve been really good,” David says.

“Hey,” Crane says. “Not like you aren’t going around giving me a cushion every game.”

“Well,” David says. “I mean, Kurmazov and Gibson—”

“Seriously though,” Crane interrupts. “I have a good feeling about this year.”

“Me too,” David says.

“You’re one of the reasons,” Crane says.

“You too,” David says.

“Fucking All-Stars,” Crane says.

“Yeah,” David agrees.

“Stupid shit,” Crane says. “But it’s a compliment or whatever so let’s be gracious. We’ll see how I’m feeling when I’ve let four in. Feel free to make fun of my tantrum after. Unless you scored one of them. Because I’ll kill you.”

David smiles.

“What?” Crane asks.

“I like you,” David says.

“You too, my brother,” Crane says.

*

The room assignments are decided before the draft. Most of them need to the rooms to change for the draft, so David understands why that’s the case, but it still seems odd to share a room with an opponent. Perhaps it’d be more impactful if any of them seemed to care about the final score, but beyond the typical competitiveness that appears in NHL players in everything but Mario Kart to random bets, there seems to be a general acknowledgment that this is a necessary farce, an acknowledgment that David didn’t ascribe to in his rookie year, but does now.

An hour before the draft he hears the door open while he’s in the bathroom fixing his hair, and comes out to find Casey Hearst.

“Just popped in to see who my roomie was,” Hearst says. “Hi.”

“Hi,” David says.

“This is pretty much going to be your room,” Hearst says, then hands over his keycard to David, who frowns before taking it. “I know the whole thing’s for bonding and shit, I’m all for that, but my daughter’s got a game at eight tomorrow, and I don’t miss those unless I’m out of town. Just heading home Saturday too. Hope that’s okay, nothing against you but I’m on the road enough, I’d really just prefer to chill with my family.”

“It’s fine,” David says. “That means I get my own room, right?”

Hearst laughs. “True. That’s cool, then.”

“Of course,” David says.

“Okay,” Hearst says. “Don’t rat me out? I don’t think it’s against the rules, but—”

“I won’t rat you out,” David says.

“Cool,” Hearst says. “Hope you’re on my roster. Lourdey thinks you’re the shit, so.”

“Um,” David says.

“Not saying I don’t,” Hearst says. “But he’s been pushing for you.”

“Oh,” David says. “Well.”

“I’ll see you later, I have to meet with my As,” Hearst says. “But nice to meet you properly.”

“You too,” David says.

*

David’s aware that the draft is generally one of the audience’s favourite parts of the All-Star Weekend. He doesn’t understand the appeal: there’s very little that’s more nerve-wracking than waiting to see when you’re being chosen, and when it’s the elite invited, someone talented is going to be last. They have amends in the form of a car, but everyone there could buy that car with a single game’s salary, so it isn’t much of a salve to being considered the worst on offer.

David spent the previous draft thinking about what he would do with the car, figuring he’d ask Dave to find a worthy charity, before he was chosen in the middle of the pack. This year he isn’t as concerned, considering what Jake said: perhaps it’s foolish to put all his faith in that, but Hearst is picking first, and he can’t imagine Jake not stepping in if the final two included him. Maybe that’s arrogant, or foolish, or just — hoping too much. Even so, he doesn’t think he’ll be last. 

David has a red Solo cup of water. He’s fairly sure it isn’t water in the hands of many other guys. He has no idea where he’d even find the alcohol that’s in most hands, though he’s sure if he asked someone would point the way. It doesn’t matter. He knows they’ll be drinking after the draft, and he has no interest in drinking in the public eye, deniable or not. 

Still, he wonders if he’d be more relaxed, less likely to hold the cup in a white-knuckled fist, if he was drinking. It isn’t really an acceptable trade off, but as it is, sober, sitting beside players who absolutely are not drinking water, David thinks the popularity contest might sting a little less. 

Crane’s a row behind him, and he leans forward. “Hope you’re with me,” he says, breathing close enough to David that David can personally confirm he’s one of the many not drinking water. “You embarrass me enough in practice.”

David fights a smile, aware the camera might be on them. “You stop more than you let in,” David says.

“High bar to clear,” Crane says sarcastically, and almost sloshes his drink on David before David carefully steadies the cup.

“See,” Crane says. “That’s good defence. Hope you’re with me.”

“Crane, you pouring drinks over everyone?” Connors asks.

“No,” Crane says. “Got my D handy.”

“Got the D,” Boucher says under his breath, elbowing David in the side.

“Ow,” David says, shooting him a look.

“Like that hurt,” Boucher says unapologetically, and it didn’t, but it was still rude.

“It’s starting, shut up,” Connors says, which David appreciates.

There’s an inordinate amount of pageantry before the draft, considering it’s picking players for a game everyone will forget in a week. “Here we go,” Crane says before Hearst makes his first pick, leaning forward to breathe in David’s ear, and David makes an effort not to cringe back. 

“Yes,” David says. “Good luck.”

“You too,” Crane says, and then thankfully quiets before they’re talking over Hearst.

Hearst’s first choice is Boucher, who makes a spectacle of himself going up, throwing up his arms and running down to meet Hearst, who offers a hand and receives a hug in return. The group of players chuckles, and David, reminded of Kiro telling him to show a sense of humour during Boucher’s Rocket Richard speech, forces a smile as well. 

David ends up being the fourth pick for Team Hearst, after Boucher, another forward, and one defenceman. David doesn’t think that’s the best strategy, but Hearst has an additional D in his leadership, and it is better than the Forwards First mentality David typically sees. He wonders if it was Jake listening to him, but figures that’s too self-centered: more likely than not it was Hearst calling the shots, but the fourth pick, seventh overall? That feels like Jake. That feels like Jake advocating for him.

Hearst hands over the jersey, shakes David’s hand while David thanks him. Hearst’s other A Davies does the same, offering his hand, and then there’s Jake, who doesn’t offer a hand at all, instead pulls him into a hug, the loose, deniable sort that they always exchange unless they’re behind closed doors.

“Allie sent me something yesterday,” Jake says when he pulls back. “Apparently we’re like, mortal enemies and are going to try to injure one another this weekend? Figured I’d nip that shit in the bud.”

“You hugged me to shut people up?” David asks, though, honestly, he understands the urge to silence the worst of the comments, understands how hard it is to ignore them.

“Mostly I just wanted to hug you,” Jake says, and David looks away, cheeks going dark.

“Shouldn’t have said that,” Jake says. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” David says. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” Jake says. “Good to have you.”

“Good to be here,” David says, and when Jake grins at him, he can’t help but smile back.


End file.
